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The new era. [volume] (Sauk Rapids, Min. [i.e. Minn.]) 1860-1861, June 28, 1860, Image 1

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THURSDAY, JUNE 518, 1860
G ive me leave to enjoy myself. That place that does
Contain my 'molts, the best companions, is
To me a glorious Court, where hourly I
Converse with the old Sages and Philosophers*
Life in the Woods.
No. 17.
There came down to Two Rivera,
while we still were tarrying at Mr. War
ren’s, the old Pillager Chief, Esh-ke
bug-e- coshe, or Flatmouth. His home
was at Leach Lake, some twenty miles
to the North. He was an old man,
past three score y*?ars and ten, and bore
upon his persen the scars of many
wounds received in battle with the
Sioux. His hair was thin and grey, his
visage wrinkled, and the outer edge of
his ears slit open the entire length, on
account of the profusion of ornaments
which he had been accustomed to wear.
Contrary to his usual habit, we were
told, his dress consisted of but slovenly
rags, for he was mourning for two proud
brave sons who had lately fallen victims
to the treachery and ferocity of the
Sioux So his mourning was in sack
ed th and ashes, literally. Of many
children, one boy only of twelve years
of age was left to hun. He had three
wives—one as old as himself, whom he
left at home; the other two were sisters
and but twenty-five years of age, Do
cile and capable must they have been,
for, owing to the old chief’s infirmities,
they had, by their united strength,
hauled him down to Two Rivers on a
"vehicle” resembling a drag, which
they callod a “slide.” Mr. Warren
treated him with much veneration and
respect. He partook his meals with us
at table, and, despite his uncomeliness
of dress, and decrepitude of age, his
dignity of bearing, and his eloquence of
word and look, won our admiration.—
Fred put to him many questions, the
answers to which Mr. Warren inter
preted. Among others—“ Would he
not faar that morning to meet the
Sioux?” He made answer with kind
ing eye, and vehement gesture :
“If I feared not the Sioux in youth
and in manhood, nor when I had sons
and daughteis to live for, how much
less should 1 now, when I have but a
day] to live, and the sun must soon
set ”
lie knew, by its sound, he said, the
gun of a Sioux.
His spcciul business at this time was
for Mr. Warren to write a letter for
him to the great father, the President of
the United States. The stately old Pil
lager dictated, Mr. Warren interpreted,
and Fred wrote one of the smartest,
most sensible, most pointed and eloquent
letters that ever we have read. Its
subject was an opposition to the treaty
that had been recently made with Gov
ernment, through Gov. Ramsey. Won
der we did not rctaina copy. Have heard
nothing recently of the old Chief, Flal
*n*unh. No doubt he has been gathered
i o his lost children.
It seems but the other day since we
(were at Mr. Warrant, listening
to old FlatinotUh, to many another
interesting Indian story besides the
dreuin and trance of the “Woman ol
the sky.” The days of eight years
liave sped like “the weaver’s shuttle,”
yet in the very beginning of their rapid
flitting, he whose heart beat but to gen
tle and kindly feelings, and to whose
musically uttered and fervent words we
then listened with pleased attention,
fainted by the wayside ot life, leavibU
unfinished the work he had so urdently
wished to accomplish. Mr. Warren had
written a history of the manne s, cus
toms, feuds and friendships of his race ;
for this he was admirably competent.—
one better understood and compre
hended the very spirit of the Indian
character. In their midst, near to their
homes, dear to their hearts, he was
a sympathiser with their trials and sor
rows, a patient listener to their wrongs,
an earnest and faithful] laborer for
their welfare and improvement. The
portions of his manuscripts which he
submitted for our perusal, reflected
credit upon him as a ready and enter
taining writer, besides possessing in the
immediate subject surpassing interest.
The winter of 1852 Mr. Warren spent
in eastern cities, mostly in New York,
endeavoring to make arrangements for
the publication of his book. From time
to time reports reached us of his failing
health, which had for some time been
delicate. No one of hie friends, howev-
Edited by W. H. WOOD and Motto— « Freedom is the only safeguard of Government, and Order and Moderation are neceaary to Freedom.”—.Uifem.
YOL. 1* —HO. 25.
er, dreamed that the death-angel was
following him so near. In the early
spring he started for his home, which—
living—he failed to reach. Arrived in
St Paul, among friends, he breathed
hislast ; a gentle, confiding, manly spirit
went out from earth, when the soul of
William. W. Warren “plumed itswings
for Heaven.”
“Pleasant hath been onr converge, gentle friend,
Full of high thoughts, breathing of Heavenward
Thorefore, beyond the grave, I surely deem
'that we shall meet again.’*
We have recently been informed that
the manuscripts which Mr. Warren had
prepared for publication are in the
hands of Mr. Schoolcraft, to be woven
among his world-renowned sketches of
Indian life.
For the New Era.
Sleep Love. Sleep.
Sleep love, sleep;
The lung, long day is done—
Sleep, love sleep
Ere another is begun.
Happy be thy slumbers
Without one dn aui of sorrow:
Happy be thy wakening
On the glad to-morrow.
Sleep, love sleep
Til Aurora sv\ift uncloses,
All with her rosy fingers,
The globing eastern portals;
’Till the sun’s bright steeds upspringing
From the briny depths below,
Do chase the ling ring «tars of night
Before them as they go.
Sleep love sleep—
I would I 100 wert sleeping
The last, long sleep
That never wake 9 to weej ing;
If never more to hear thy voice
In love’s low gentle tone,
Breathe “Petite” “dear,” I love thee,
Thee, only thee, alone.
Gillimehe Sr. Ark.,
Manchester,N. 11. 16S0.
The Mission of a Flower.
A writer in the Democratic Review of
years ago, deduces from his own ex
perience, an argument, beautiful as un
answerable, on the existence of Deity.
“One beautiful evening in May,” he
says, “I was reading by the light of the
helling sun, in my favorite Plato. I was
seated on the grass, interwoven with
golden blooms, immediately on the bank
of the crystal Colorado of Texas. Dim
in t>e distant west, arose with smoky
outlines, massy and irregular, the blue
cones of an offshoot of the Rocky Moun
tains. I was pursuing one of the Acad
emician’s most stirring dreams: He
had laid fast hold of my fancy without
exciting my faith. I wept to think it
could not be true. At length I came to
that startling sentence, ‘God geome
tries,’ ‘Vain revery !’ I exclaimed,
ns 1 cast the volume on the ground at
my feet. It fell close by a beautiful little
flower, that looked fresh aud bright, as
if it had just fallen from the bosom of a
rainbow I broke it from its silvery
stem, and began to examine its struct
ure. Its stamens were five in number;
its green calyx had five parts; its deli
cate corolla was five parted, with rays
expanding like those of the Texan star.
This combination of fives, three times
in the blossom appeared very singular
1 had never thought on such a subject
before. The last sentence I had just
read in the page of the pupil of Socra
tes was ringing in my ears. ‘God ge
omotrizes*’ There was n text written
long centuries ago, then this little flow
er in the re .‘note wilderr.ess of the West
furnished the commentary. There sud
denly passed, as it were, before my
eye a faint flash of ii£ht. I felt my
heart beat in my bosom. The Enigma
of the Universe was open.”
Arthurs Magazine. —for July.—
With this No., commences a new story.
“Come and Go,” by Miss Townsend,
who has found her way to every heart.
The auther of “Look Out,” and “Wait
and See,” has won for herself a name
and fame first among American Auth
oresses. And most prized by the in
mates of all pleasant homes is Arthur’s
jgfLillie will appear next week.—
Her article was crowded out in this
Hon. Thomas Corwin is
said to be ill at Washington.
For the New Era,
Reminiscences of Missionery
Life in the Northwest.
No 7.
Our last chapter brought us to La
Pointe. This place is at the Southwest
ern end of Magdalen Island, the largest
one of the groupe called the Apostle
Islands, and lies equi distant between
the Ontonagon and the St. Louis river
which enters Lake Superior at its West
ern extremity. It is from twelve to
fifteen miles in length, and from two to
five miles in breadth, pointing Northeast
and Southwest. Its Southwestern end
lies in a bay, and is separated from the
main shore of the lake by a deep chan
nel from Iwo to six miles wide. We
first resided at the trading postwhich was
then at the most Southern portion of the
Island ; but three years after, the mis
sion was moved to the first bay on the
Western side ol the Eland, a mile and a
half from our first residence; and the
next year the trading establishment was
also removed to that side of the island,
a mile beyond us.
I find the following note of our first
impressions on arriving at La Pointe:—
“I believe all of us who had not be
fore seen the place were agreeably dis
appointed. We found it a more pleas
ant place than we had anticipated. As
we approached it from the the lake, it
appeared like a small village. There are
several buildings, and thirty or forty
acres of land cleared of the timber and
some of it under cultivation, on which
are growing peas, potatoes, garden
vegetables, end grass. These are suf
fering much from excessive drougth.
This gives to the place some appear
ance of civilization, and contrasts pleas
antly with all we have yet seen since
entering Lake Superior.”
The natural scenery about La Pointe
possesses great beauty. Both the is
land and the main land are covered
with a dense forest. The land on the
island rises from the shore, sometimes
by a gradual slope, and sometimes by
abrupt banks of rock and clay, to
wards the center, to the height, per
haps, of a hundred feet, giving it the
appearance as you approach it from the
lake, of a beautifully rounded swell
in its central part. The land on the
opposite shore rises into hills which in
summer are covered with a beautiful
dark green foliage, giving to it the ap
pearance of being covered with rich
vegetation. r l lie shore is genarally
bold, and much of the way fortified by
walls of red sandstone rock, which rise
in some places perpendicularly to the
height of fifty or sixty feet, with an oc
casional break in the small bays, where
is found a sandy beach. The island
is divided from the main-land by a deep
channel of beautiful, pure water, “clear
.s crystal,” protected from the agita
tions of the broad lake by the islands
which cluster here on the one side, and
the curviture of the lake shore at this
point on the other. The eastern side
of this island is washed by the open
lake. From the high fclufis on this side
of it the view is grand. To the east,
down the lake, you view a dark waste
of waters, which to the eye has no lim
it From the south-east, as if rising im
mediately out of the lake, the Porcu
pine mountains throw up their crest,
and swinging round in almost the form
of a semi-circle towards the south-west,
bound your vision in that direction.
Our first business was, of course, \o
provide for ourselves a shelter from the
heats, and colds, and rains, and storms,
and winds to which we had been so long
exposed on our voyage, and to com
mence house-keeping. We found a
small log shanty at the place unoccu
pied, which we procured, and immedi
ately set about repairing it for occupan
cy. It was made of small Jogs loosely
laid together, unhewed and unjointed.
The cracks between the log 3 had been
once filled with mud, which had now
considerably fallen off. The roof was
covered with the bark of the white ce
dar, which is pealed from tho tree in
pieces about four feet long and from
one to two and a half feet wide and
spread over rafters, one piece lap
ping over another as in laping shingles
on a roof. The chimney was made of
clay, first worked up into morler, then
made into rolls twenty inches long and
four in diameter, with straw or hay
worked into them to hold them together.
These are put on a framework of up
right poles and cross sticks, and mould
ed and rubbed and worked by hand,
piece afterpiece, and layer after layer,
till at length they form a chimney.—
And no other chimney did I ever see
used in that country till I hud been there
fifteen yens. Our house was open and
leaky. The second dav after our ar
>iva! we removed our goods into it, un
packed our boxes and trunks, and ar
ranged them ns well as we could for
Our house was divided into three
apartments, but we had but one fire
place and no means of warming more
than one room. The building was
lighted by small glass windows of a sin
gle sash tc each, “few and far between,”
and so high from the floor that we hod
to stand to look out of them. Our fur
niture was composed of a very few arti
clesof the rudest construction. We had
one or two chairs which had once been
in civilized society. But we used our
trunks and boxes principally for seats,
till we could make some benches and
stools. We found some rude bedstead*,
composed of rough boards and poles
upon which we laid onr beds. Our
floor was composed of rough boards,
loosely put down. The clay was con
stantly falling from the logs in the walls
of the building, covering the floor with
dirt and every thing in it with dust.—
The hearth was made of clay rnorter
dried, which was so soft that when the
broom passed over it, it would leave
more dirt behind than it removed
These were annoyances, and of.en re
minded us by contrast of other days and
of other circumstances. In a lew days,
however, we began to feel at home in
our new habitation. We were general
ly cheerful in each other’s presence;
but I can hardly doubt that a feeling of
loneliness and sadness crossed each
one’s mind occasionally, checking the
buoyancy of the spirits and interrupting
enjoyment. We had more to keep up
our spirits while on our passage along
the lake. We were traveling with a
large company. We had enjoyed the
society of several whose acquaintance
lie had formed. The excitements and
incidents of the voyage, and the desire
to reach our place of residence had oc
cupied our minds, and diverted our
thoughts trom the past and the future.
Now, most of these with whom we had
been traveling had left us, and gone to
their own posts. We had few left with
whom we could communicate. We be
gan to realize for the first time that we
were excluded from societv—that the
busy world was left behind—and that
we must make a world for ourselves.
The romance of missionery life began to
wane, and the reality of it became more
There were not more than three or
lour persons at the place during our first
winter, besides our own family of four,
who could speak or understand the
English language, and these, with the
exception of Mr. W., but imperfectly.
e were inexperienced in the work we
came to perform. We were unac
quainted with Indian character. The
Indians were strangers to us, and we to
them. e knew not a word of their
language and they as little of ours. We
were unaccustomed to their modes of
life, their manners and ways of thinking.
Almost all the communication we could
have with them was through an inter
preter —a hard way indeed to gain the
confidence of such a people and acquire
an influence over them.
Our situation, however, was rendered
somewhat more pleasant after a few
weeks by Mr. W. proposing to us to
accupy a part of his house which he
kindly proferred us, much to his own
inconvenience, and which was much
more comfortable than the one we occu
The winter set in early that year.—
The channel and bays of the lake froze
over early, and by December the
ground was covered with snow. Deso
lation seemsd to reign in all directions
with umpire. There we
were, shut out from all communication
with the external world. The thought
that there was no way to get out of
the country let what would happen, till
the lake should open late in the spring,
and that we could not convey nor re->
ceive any intelligence beyond the bor-i
ders of the Indian country, and that we
were strangers among the savages and
entirely in their power, would cccasion
ully come accross the mind, leaving no
pleasant sensation fur a moment- Oc
casionally there would be n feeling of
desolation within—something like that
which reigns over the frozen lake and
snow-covered hills that surrounded us.
But there were only transcicnt states ot
mind. They soon passed off, und I do !
not know that any of our company re
gretted the steps we had taken. YVe
knew God could protect us and make us
cheerful in our work. He did do it.—
No letters nor papers, no communica
tion of any kind did we receive from
our friends at Mackinaw or the States
till the next June. It was a long
dreary winter, but it passed awey not
without some enjoyment.
Medicine for the Mind.
Had the blues; concluded that thi
world was a very second-rate sort ol
place to live in; wonderd it' the sun
could’t find any other window than mine
to shine into in that impertinet, dazzling
way; wished somebody’s dog would stop
howling under my casement; felt mur
derous toward a hand-organ-grinder
around the corner; got nervous, and be
gan to believe implcitly in the doctrine
of total depravity; Thought I’d take a
walk and look it, (accordingly. Hadn’t
gone far before I cam ■ to tile conviction
that the world was not so much out of re
pair, on the whole, and here’s the rea
son why. Saw a thousand dollar Cash
mere shawl trolling along the pavement
with a diminutive lady under it. Felt
a little inclined to he envious, until 1
saw the incumbent’s face. Soul of
Medusa! wouldn’t have eucli a care
worn, wrinkle-plowed visage for sixteen,
shawls, out of the same loom ! Saw a
nice looking young man, with ambrosial
whiskers and broadeloth garb—snuffed
up the odor of patchouli afar off and set
him down for a puppy; saw him stop to
pick up a dirty little four-year older who
had tumbled down and bumped its nose
—put on its ragged cap, and comfort it
with a bright new cent. Wanted to
give him a hug and a kiss, but didn’t
—only changed our mind about the pup
py part of the question. Saw—no, I
beg pardon —-Jell the gathers of my dress
ri[ ped from the wai-t by a heavy mas
culine heel, turned round, with an aw
ful frown, but was disarmed by the polite
apologies of the delinquent. Forgave
him, because he didn’t like the rest of
mankind, look defiantly at a body, as
if he were saying, mentally, “Glad of
it —keep your dresses a little shorter,
next time!” Heard a lady who was
shopping tell the hapless clerk “she was
sorry for having given him so much
trouble!” Noticed a policeman escor
ing ar old colored woman across
Broadway as politely as if she were
Miss Lane. Began to wonder whether
there was not a redeeming virtue or two
left in this battered old world, after, all.
Was wholly and entirely convinced, in
the cars by seeing one lady refuse to
take the seat yielded up to her by a
white-haired old man, and hearing an
other say “thank you, sir!” tor a sim
ilar favor. Came home, reconciled to
human nature. The sun was not so
disagreeable on second thoughts; the
hand-organ (now that tt was a little far
ther off!) was quite melodious; in short,
the mental thermometer had gone up
twenty-five degrees. Broadway is a
pretty good medicine forsome ailments,
and—this in your private ear, reader-it
is wiser to look at the pleasant side of
humanity. Don’t you think so ?
All About Cats
How fond some people are of cats!
They admit that cats are treacherous;
that they are seldom sincere in their at
tachments, and never disinterested. And
still they pet them and yearn for them
We are not ot that sort. Like Inigo in
the play:
“I have a horror of the race feline:
I dread a cat whoae lives or tail* are nine;
Though other dangers ( but little heed,
I’m vary ynucy-lanimous indeed.”
There’s something very insinuating
about the animal. It wheedles and
coaxes you, with its graceful motions ,
to assume a conviction of its good faith;
but we never do. The creature is en
irely too smooth and quiet for our sense
of honesty. We distrust her half-clos
ed eye, her velveffP foot, her noiseless
approach. She is the incarnation of
duplicity to our mind. Seat !
Printing Establishment,
Second Story,
I VW have a large assortment of new and Type
I Border, Cuts, Etc., w hid* eatables us to turn out soma
of the best job «ork in the State, and at low price*
Bre.i Hutit, Pouinj, Blanks,
, r ‘ D ** Bills, Circclaks,
Invitations, I arils. Etc.
•» c l v '* ry ol *'Cr description of printing cxcep
* ookwwk, done neatly sr.ii promptly at this office.
n>;% LKs of every description prime* to order.
I loved them so,
that when the elder Shephered of the fold
Came, covered with the storm, pale and cold,
And begged for one ofiny sweet lambs to hold,
I bade him go.
He claimed the pet:
A little fundliog thing, that to my breast
Clang always, either in qniet or nnrest,
I thought of all my lambs I loved him bast,
And yet—and— yet—
I laid hitn down,
In those white, shrondedarms, with hitter tears;
For some voice told me that, in after years.
He should know naught of passion, grief, or fears.
As I had known.
And yet again
That elder Shepherd came; my heart giew faint
He claimed another lamb, with sadder plaint,
Another/ She who, gentle ns a saint,
Ne’er gave tno pain.
A ghost I turned awa>;
There sat she, lovely as an angel’s dream,
Her golden locks w ith sunlight all agleam,
Her holy ey es with heaven in their beam;
I knelt to pray;
‘‘ls it Thy will?
My Fathes, say, must this pet’lamb be given?
0/ thou has many such dear land, in heaven; 1
But a soft voice said, “Nobly hast thou striven
But—peace, he still/ ’
Of how I wept/
\nd clasped her lo my bosom, with a wild
And yearning love—my lamb, iny pleasant child;
Her, too, I gave—the little angel smiled,
And slept.
“fJo/ go!” I cried,
For once that Shepherd laid his baud
I. pon the noblest of our honschold hand.
Like a pale specter, there he took his stand,
Close to his side.
And yet how wondrous street
I he look with which he heard uiy passionate cry -
“Touch not my lamb—for him, O/ let me dip/”
"A little whtle," he said, with smile and sigh.
“Again to meet.”
Hopeless I fell;
And when I rose tho light had burned so low,
So faint, I could not see my darling go—
lie had not hidden me farewell; but, O'
1 felt farewell,
Mura duoplyr f»r
Than if my arms hud compassed that slight frame
Though could I but have heard him call my name
Dear mother —but in heaven 'twill be the same
There burns my star.
He will not take
Another lamb, I thought, for only one
Of that dear fold is spared to be my sun,
My guide, my mourner when this life is done;
My heart would break.
Oh, with what thrill
I heard him enter; hut I did not know.
(I or it was dark) that he had robbed ntc so;
The idol of my soul/—he could not go—
O, heart, be still /
Came morning; can I tell
How this poor frame its sorrowful tenant kept*
For waking tears wers mine; I, sleeping, wept,
j?nd days, months, years, that weary vigil kept
Alas/ “ Farewell,’
llow often it is said!
I sit aud think, andwonder too, sometime;
How it will seem when in that happior dime;
It never will ring out like funeral chime
Over the dead.
No tears! no tears!
Will there a day come that I shall not weep T
For 1 bedew my pillow in my eleep.
Yes. yes; thank God/ no grief that dime shall
No weary year*
Aye/ it is well/
Well w ith my lambs, and with their early guide*
There, pleasant ri vert wander the beside,
Or strike sweet harps npon its silver tide—
Aye/ it is well
Through the dreary day
They often come from glorious light to me;
I cannot feel their touch,their fares see,
)fet my soul whispers, they do come to me;
Heaven is not far away.
Men’s Wives
“The love and approval of her hus
band is all that a wife ought to desire."
So says some sever moralist. The
Turks and most Oriental people aro of
this opinion; but it does not seem to be
very popular with Americans. Are the
hundred-dollar silk dresses and twenty
dollar bonnets, with all the rest of the
dry-goods, intended to secure the love
and approval of the husband f The
fact is, when an American gets a hand
some wife, he wants everybody to ad
mire her. That is what he earns and
spends his money for. You cannot
please him better than by paying atten
tion to his wife; you cannot offend him
worse than by neglecting her. Our
moralist’s doctrine may be all right, bu
it is very far from being popular ia this
part of the world.

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